The Bird is the Word: Sophisticated Schoolyard Shenanigans
Concerning the murder of junior Ben Snyder, we have identified a witness account from a janitor on the site at the time of the murder. Detective Jenkins, one of our best, met with this witness for a brief interview.
Audio Player
Interview with PVS Nighttime Janitor, 27 September 2017
If you have information regarding Case #4501, leave it in the Comment Section! Work with your fellow students to see who did the dastardly deed to Ben.
Information verified by Prosecutor Charles Schnell
By Renée Vazquez A.
I can’t breath
when I feel you creep inside.
You make it hurt.
You make me shudder.
Inside, and out.
You make me cry,
first on the inside
and then you spill over.
You push my fears,
my worries,
pressing them into my heart–
you press them into my throat–
you make them fill my entire me–
you are them.
And you’ve consumed me.
And you make me guilty
for serving you;
as you slowly replace me,
time after time.
Editor: AJ Patencio
Illustration by Harlow Berny
Retold by Harlow Berny
Centuries ago, an old religious man of a long forgotten kingdom died of a poor heart and ascended to the pearly gates in the sky. At the same moment, the king of the lands the old man came from died of old age, despite being younger than the peasant. St. Peter came to the gate and unlocked it, rejoiced to see the king, but was so distracted that he did not see the peasant and closed the gate before the old man could walk through and join his king. The peasant sat down before the gate and waited. As he did so, he heard trumpets, drums, and shouts of glee, no doubt for the king that entered heaven. After an hour or so, he could smell freshly baked breads and ripe fruits and warm pies, and the music became quieted as they celebrated the grand arrival. It was around this time that St. Peter came back to the gates and found the old man, and when the peasant walked to the feast, he half expected the music of the angels as well, but all he heard was the chatter of the people as they ate. There were angels that greeted him and were happy to see him, but there were no songs or music. When the peasant asked why there was singing for the king but not for himself, and if heaven had the same favoritism of wealthy over the poor, St. Peter gave him this response:
“Dear old soul, we love all people the same here, and everyone is able to enjoy the riches of the earth in the kingdom. I ask you to forgive us, for poor souls like yourself come many a time, but souls of the rich only ever come a hundred years or so.”
Edited by: Renée Vazquez
Re-telling of Grimm’s
Author, poet, and painter Natalie Goldberg
By Charles Schnell
Are you having trouble writing a novel? How about a poem? A play? Perhaps, one of the essays Ms. Zachik, Mr. Griffin, or Dr. Carr has ordered? Don’t worry; Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones is just what you need. This roughly 200-page book is essentially a guidance counselor for writers. Goldberg has written a practical, anti-textbook that tells you what you want to know and inspires you to write. She details various stages of a writer’s mind in development, ranging from philosophical advice (how to tackle doubt), to practical, simple words of wisdom (don’t think and don’t wait — write).
Goldberg applies her spiritual wisdom to the physical world. When reading the book, it’s almost as if she is there in person, teaching you. And, it’s not as if the book is very long. She says what she wants to say, tells the stories she wants to tell, and does it quickly. Each chapter is about two pages.
A few of my favorite chapters are “A Meal You Love,” “Doubt is Torture,” and “Don’t Tell, but Show.” The first is all about detail and making your words come alive on the page. The second, “Doubt is Torture,” is about what might be the biggest struggle of all artists–DOUBT. Doubt can stem from many things: fear, past failures, or lack of money. Goldberg understands this very well: “Every other month I am ready to quit writing….These thoughts are torture….Doubt is torture….It is a constant test of perseverance.” In this chapter, Goldberg shows how you’re not the only dreamer who doubts. You can overcome. Finally, in the chapter “Don’t Tell, but Show,” Goldberg explains why showing feelings through actions, rather than just stating, is deeper and more real than simply telling, and gives her advice on how to show. Her advice has proven to be really useful.
Of course, all of the chapters in this book are helpful and contain much advice that I cannot simply state in this review. To be honest, you’ll probably learn more from reading this book than taking some writing workshops (although, both are recommended). The book could even function as a refreshing daily meditation on writing, to be read over and over, chapter by chapter.
This and much more is why I appreciate this book, and I highly suggest it for anyone who needs help and is stuck in a seemingly permanent writer’s block (remember, it is not permanent), whether that block be in writing a short story, an English essay, or even a book review for your weekly post on thebirdonfire.org….
Editor: Claire Jenkins
Goldberg is also an accomplished professional painter.
By Makena Behnke
i am trapped
today i came to the realization that i am trapped
there are very few days that i feel like this
that statement is false
i feel very small once i think deeply about myself
that statement is true
i know who i am
that statement is both true and false
Editor: Peter Kadel
By Renée Vazquez A.
Most people find it ridiculous
that I dare call myself foreign.
My skin is pale,
I’ve lived here for years;
I have no accent, with a few exceptions,
But yet, I am foreign.
I have not the loyalty or the indebted view
that many immigrants do.
But yet, I am foreign.
I feel foreign.
I was raised foreign.
I manage a very different perspective
on various things.
I read foreign.
I speak foreign.
But not in the crowd,
no, not in front of those near me,
for I have enough sense not to stand out.
I miss my country’s culture,
it’s rich long history,
and the kindness of its people
and the food they eat.
I scowl in resentment,
when my native place is mocked.
Especially when those people are ignorant
or just plain wrong.
Don’t get me wrong; I see its faults.
I know that it is flawed.
But not in those ways that are said by some.
But, in many ways, I’m foreign there too,
in the ways that I’m foreign here as well.
For sometimes I feel I am a foreigner of the world.
Editor: A.J. Patencio
By Peter Kadel
The trees sigh
The mountains howl
The rivers roar
The plains rumble as thousands of hooves stamp and pound across them
The desert deafens you with utter silence
And the sky accepts this noise and waits for it to disappear
Listen
The songbirds twitter and titter
Their wings beat as they whistle and tweet
The hawk lets out a piercing cry with the same lovely twang as an old guitar
The placid lake prefers silence wishing to listen to the lyrical beauty the frogs have to offer
And the fish are the glorious percussion as they leap through the glassy surface and then slap back down like a lazy drummer
Listen
The bow of a ship scrapes and scratches against gravely beaches
Metal tools clatter and clang as foolish explorers build monuments to materialism
Black powder ignites and lethal projectiles fly forward snuffing out our most precious treasure–life
The aggressors’ voices drown out the screams of Mother Nature and her children
Listen
Her anguished cries subside to gentle sobs as coal iron and timber are extracted and used to fuel the machine
Cities like arteries are linked by roads like veins bringing the stolen life to those undeserving of it
Gears and engines turn and grind a roar and devour the freshness of the world
We feed on the flesh and blood of earth and we smile as her blood drips from our faces.
Listen
Look someone cares
They speak out and carry signs wishing for change
They are defenders guardians warriors citizens of the natural world
They care and they aren’t afraid to tell the world
They hold marches
They practice conservation in everyday life
A generation has found their voice
Listen
But no one does
The bastards still drown us out with screeching machinery
Our peaceful resistance grinds to a halt as they grind the forest into dust and strip the world bare
They tell us we are wrong
They have the audacity to call us conspiracy theorists
I can’t bear to listen
So I won’t
It’s my turn to make some noise
It’s their turn to listen
And they don’t have a choice
My voice is my weapon and my wit is sharp
My battle cry will shake what little trees are left
I will roar like a hurricane
I will bellow like the machines you cherish
And I will drown them out and destroy them as they destroy the world
I will do it happily
You’d better listen
Editor: Makena Behnke
By Brennan Nick
Ghosts are a blurred idea, the dwelling of unfinished business.
When moving from your old home you may have had bitter feelings left,
The ones from unfinished business that murmur back to be resolved.
But less than a day later, a new family may come, a fresh coat of paint that faded away your impact.
All that you felt, had, loved, is no longer there, “tasteless,” you’d say, now just in your thoughts.
Maybe that’s why we believe that those icy ghosts exist,
That our lives had such an impact that they can still hush where we have been but no longer.
Editor: Peter Kadel
THIS IS PART OF OUR MURDER MYSTERY SERIES. THIS IS PURE FICTION AND MEANT FOR ENJOYMENT. TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR THE NEXT PART OF THE PUZZLE!
Information compiled by Detectives Shelby Armor and Claire Jenkins
CASE 4501 – BEN SNYDER
Ben Snyder was found dead by one of the janitorial staff late last night. She reported the death to Captain Peter Kadel of the PVS Police Department at 10:42 p.m. They believe that the victim was killed by indirect means. No evidence has been found yet. Captain Kadel told our reporter that Snyder was found dead in the Upper School courtyard with his backpack and multiple books at one of the tables. The PVS Police are still on the hunt for witnesses. If you know anything about this, please contact PVSPolice@pvs.org. The motive is still unclear, and the case is currently open. A progress report will follow.
Information verified by Captain Kadel
WARNING: The following story may be a cliffhanger; proceed at your own risk.
Graphic by Harlow Berny
Retold by Harlow Berny
Centuries ago, when the winter had lain a thick blanket of snow upon the earth, a commoner’s son was sent to the forest to collect some firewood for his family, since the old miller from whom they used to buy was now beyond the realm of the living. When he had gathered as much as he could onto his quaint sleigh, he was tired and cold from his hours of work without any more than the thin clothes on his back. He decided to dig in the snow to make a small fire pit so he could regain his strength to bring the logs home, but once he removed the snow from the dirt, he found a small, golden key, no bigger than a toothpick. If there is a key hidden in the ground, thought he, then there must be something to unlock as well! He dug deeper under the ground where he found the key, delighted to find an iron box! Surely this box holds something precious inside! He searched all sides, and after two searches he saw the keyhole, so small that it was barely visible. He decided to try the key in the hole, and it fit perfectly inside. When he gently turned it and heard a delicate click, the box was unlocked. He opened the lid, and found inside…
Editor: Makena Behnke
